


Gentlemanadventurer!Eames and bookshopowner!Arthur WIP

by Renne



Category: Inception (2010), Uncharted
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, WIP, probably never going to be completed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renne/pseuds/Renne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the fragments of my very much incomplete Arthur/Eames "Eames the gentleman adventurer, Arthur the bookshop owner" fic. As the original entry is now locked on my LJ, I am sharing it here for the people who still want to read it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gentlemanadventurer!Eames and bookshopowner!Arthur WIP

Trying to climb a rock face next to a waterfall doesn't rate highly on Eames' list of 'excellent life choices that'll help him live to see his next birthday', but then again, that can be said about so many of his decisions. Like free soloing, for example. That probably rates even lower on the list. 

He bites his lip, intense concentration beading sweat on his brow, as he tightens his grip on a slippery rock, braces himself and reaches for his next handhold. It feels secure under his hand and looking up he can seen he's only metres now from the top of the cliff face. Thank god.

It's this distraction that sees him slip. He grunts, startled, as his fingers slide off the rock, the loop of vine under his foot unable to take his sudden weight. He falls silently, the mist of the waterfall wrapping him in an ineffectual cradle as he plunges towards the pool below.

*

Arthur doesn't deliberately keep track of when the man comes into his shop. It's sometimes once or twice a week, sometimes there's a week Arthur doesn't see him at all, sometimes it can be a month or more before he returns. He's annoying though; not that he ever says anything to Arthur, not annoying that way. But he's there, and he browses all the different sections, and he carefully leafs through some of Arthur's most precious volumes, and he never, ever buys anything.

He looks like he could well afford any volume on Arthur's very exclusive shelves. Expensive clothes, shoes, a gold pocket watch – Arthur would put money on it being an antique – and chain on his wrist; he's well built (not that that's related to his ability to buy any of Arthur's stock, it's strictly a clinical observation), Arthur can tell that there's muscle under those clothes for all the softening of his jaw line and sleekness to his body.

It's finally after the man has been into the shop four days in a row that Arthur loses all patience and marches up to him. "Excuse me," he says, perhaps a little more rudely than he intended. Ariadne glances up curiously from where she is cataloguing the collection he'd picked up by the boxful at an estate auction in Buckinghamshire. He pulls a face at her. She's had to listen to his numerous complaints about Mr. Moneybags-Who-Never-Buys-Anything, but her contributions to the whole conversation usually revolved around wondering what the colour of his eyes were, what his name was, the breadth of his shoulders, and "But Arthur, he's really cute and obviously likes books. He's totally your type!" 

The man is looking at him curiously and he coughs, a little embarrassed, schooling his expression. "Was there anything I can help you with, sir?" Arthur asks. He can't seem to help the impatient tone, which is definitely not what he's aiming for.

The man smiles faintly, just a slight curve of his very nice  _lush_  lips (his eyes are grey-blue, Arthur notes, because Ariadne would want to know) and shakes his head. "No, I'm fine, thank you," he says politely. His voice is deep and rough, but there is a definite note of dismissal. He turns back to the books, gently sliding a volume on the building of the Panama Canal off the shelf.

While Arthur thinks he can fault the man's manners, he definitely can't fault his care. Eventually he says stiffly, "Well. Please let me know if you need any help at all."

The man glances at him again, this time his smile more pronounced (and it doesn't cause Arthur's stomach to flip-flop, not at all). "Oh, I will," he says. "I promise."

What does that mean? Arthur wonders. He expects to see him again the next day, in just after lunch like clockwork.

But Arthur doesn't see him again for six months.

*

"I won't be back for the rest of the day," Arthur says crossly. "I have to deliver a book." 

"Is this the one for Mr. Eames' order?" Ariadne asks. She browses through their computer catalogue, twirling a loose lock of hair around her fingers. 

"Mm."

"Well, it is a hundred pounds delivery fee, you can't complain about that." Ariadne frowns and bangs the computer mouse on the desk sharply, swearing under her breath. "On top of the price."

Arthur sets his hand over Ariadne's on the mouse. "Hey. It's not the mouse's fault. Just be patient with it—"

"I  _know_ ," she grizzles. "I just hate to wait." Forgetting the computer, she swings around on the chair, flicking her hair back over her shoulder. "Anyway, I don't think you should complain about this Mr. Eames' request. He pays well just for the delivery fee and it's not that far out of your way. You're meant to be going up that way to check out Mr. Macmillan's collection of Aristotle sometime this week anyway. Why not swing by Mr. Eames' place after checking it out?"

Arthur grunts. She has a point. He still resents being a delivery boy, though. It would be a different thing if this Mr. Eames had something to offer in return—well, okay, he is offering one hundred pounds just for Arthur to drop off a single book, so it's not  _nothing_ , but Arthur's can't seem to help but be resentful. 

Maybe it's got something to do with how familiar the man had sounded over the phone; deep and raspy, a particular familiar timbre to his voice that Arthur was sure he knew, even though the man had said he wasn't a customer of Arthur's shop.

Mr. Eames' place is a manor house on a large estate. Arthur pulls up the gravel drive to the front door, parking next to an Aston Martin DB5 in British racing green, feeling a little silly in his 1992 rust bucket Citroën with suspension so bad he sometimes feels like he's bouncing along the bitumen on his rump. He collects himself, however, and the carefully wrapped book (as per Mr. Eames' instructions) off the passenger seat, and steps from the car. Arthur has been in England – and by extension, the rest of Europe – attending estate auctions and private sales for long enough now that he's gotten over gawking at centuries old architecture, but he still acknowledges that this manor, though one of the more modestly sized he's seen, is a lovely looking building. He wishes Ariadne could see it – normally a student of architecture in Paris, she loved the homes of the landed gentry here in England. 

He raps the door knocker three times and waits a moment, before he realises there's actually a doorbell and again feels silly. He's in the process of reaching for it when the door opens.

"Ah, hello," the man standing in the doorway says. "You must be Arthur." He's wearing a suit like a butler might (oh yes, Arthur's run into his fair share of them), but over that is a lab coat. A pair of clear plastic goggles are propped on his curly hair and a face mask has been pulled down around his neck. 

"Uh," Arthur says. "Yes. I... I take it you're not Mr. Eames?"

The man laughs. "No, I am Yusuf, his butler. I know what you're thinking," he continues with a sly grin even as Arthur quirks an eyebrow. "An Englishman with Indian butler, very... colonial. It's not as it sounds, though, I can assure you. Come, if you follow me, I will take you through to the  _master_  of the house."

He ushers in Arthur through the door, and Arthur glances around curiously. There's a strange emptiness to the house, something that Arthur can't quite put his finger on.

Yusuf appears quite chatty, and he continues, "Eames needed someone to tend to the house when he's away or down in the glasshouses and I needed a place to live and work." He touches the goggles with two fingers. "I am a chemist. Amongst other things," he says, gesturing expansively. Arthur isn't entirely sure he wants to know what Yusuf means by 'other things', to be honest. 

"So I look after this place for Eames and he pays me a wage and provides all my supplies." Yusuf grins and touches the side of his nose. "I believe I have gotten the better end of the deal, it is no great hardship to be the butler in this household."

It is then that Arthur realises what feels odd about the house: it doesn't feel lived in. The foyer is empty, the hallway Yusuf leads him down is cold and stark, the rooms branching off that Arthur peers into are full or furniture covered in white sheets. 

Correction: it doesn't feel lived in until Yusuf leads Arthur through to the kitchen. It's warm and friendly; there's a timber dining table with a scarred top to one end of the room, copper based pans and bunches of drying herbs, an open door that leads through to a large pantry. Littered across one end of the table is a spread of paper, several ancient looking books that make Arthur's hands almost itch to touch, a leather-bound journal and an open laptop. 

"Through this way," Yusuf prompts when Arthur's step hitches. 

There's a door in the kitchen that leads out the back of the manor house and it's this that Yusuf ushers him through, down to a cluster of small glasshouses. He punches a code into the number pad on the door of the closest one and pulls the door open. 

There's a man stooped over a bench – this is Mr. Eames, obviously – his back to the door.

"Eames," Yusuf says, poking his head in. "Your book friend is here." He ushers Arthur through the door and doesn't even wait to be dismissed like a proper butler, just turns and trots back towards the house.

Mr. Eames looks up from the work bench he's bent over and Arthur isn't all that surprised when it turns out Mr. Eames is the annoying lurking man from the shop. He looks almost completely different from what Arthur remembers. Previously the man had been sleek, broad and comfortable like a man used to living the good life. Now he's so thin he's almost gaunt, all razor fine cheekbones and jaw line, narrow shoulders under a simple t-shirt. 

"Arthur," he says warmly. "Thank you for coming." He steps forward, his hand extended, and Arthur's startled to see him limping heavily and leaning on a cane. Arthur had never noticed him with any difficulties walking before.

Mr. Eames' handshake is firm, warm like his tone. "Mr. Eames," Arthur says. He hefts the wrapped book. "As requested, I brought your order."

"Please, just call me Eames. 'Mister' makes me feel like I should be looking for my father," he says wryly and if a shadow crosses Mr. Eames' face at that, it's not Arthur's place to make a comment. It's only a moment and then he's smiling again. "I really do appreciate you taking the time to make a delivery for me. I know you'd rather post orders, but it was rather urgent and well," he gestures wryly with the cane, "as you can see I'm not entirely solid on my feet at the moment." 

"It was my pleasure," Arthur says automatically and Eames laughs. He has a very nice laugh that Arthur definitely does not notice at all.

"One hundred pounds of your pleasure, if I recall correctly," Eames says with a teasing smile.

"Yes, well." And Arthur suddenly feels awkward instead of annoyed and inconvenienced, because it wasn't like he'd known beforehand that Eames couldn't come into the store because of some injury, after all, and now his insistence on a ridiculously exorbitant delivery price seems petty and unkind. "I wouldn't worry about-"

"Oh no. A deal is a deal." Eames waves his free hand expansively. "Mustn't stint the delivery man, after all. Let me just finish up here and I'll take you to the house and get your payment." He lurches back over to the bench he'd been standing at when Arthur had entered the greenhouse, picking up a band with a magnifying glass attached and placing it on his head. 

Perhaps despite himself, Arthur drifts closer to peer around Eames at his work. Something brushes his shoulder and he flinches. It's some kind of aerial plant, green-grey and soft and spindly— "Spanish moss," Eames says. "It won't bite." He winks playfully and turns back to his work bench.

Eames does something terrible delicate to the wreck of a triangular flower on the plant with a scalpel and a toothpick, before transferring the tip of the toothpick to a flower on the next plant. "Pollination," Arthur says, suddenly realising what Eames is doing. "You're pollinating the flower."

Eames doesn't say anything for a long moment, before he straightens, breathing out heavily. "Correct," he says, tugging the magnifying glasses off his head. He moves quickly, tagging the flower and cleaning up the bench top. "Its  _Masdevallia exquisita_ ," he says, holding up the plant he just pollinated and turning it so Arthur can see one of the small pink and white flowers. "I picked up a couple of specimens last time I was in Ecuador. I'm crossing it with a gorgeous 'Machu Picchu' just to see what happens." He picks up a fragment of what Arthur assumes is the other plant's flower off the bench and admires the colour for a moment (it's a lovely deep purple) before casually flicking it into the bin.

"Anyway," he says, "I'm sure you're not all that interested in the sex lives of orchids – let's head up to the house."

Arthur opens his mouth for a moment to protest (because it's interesting, it really is, even if Arthur has no idea what a  _Masdevallia_  is and assumes by 'Machu Picchu' Eames means another plant and not the Incan ruins), before closing it and following Eames from the glasshouse. The difference between the humid warmth of the glasshouse and outside is striking. Arthur didn't realise he'd broken out in a light sweat until the breeze stirs across his skin.

"Hold up a tick." Eames reaches back in around the doorframe and flicks a switch before closing the door behind them, and suddenly the glasshouse is filled with mist. Arthur watches as it thickens for a handful of seconds before slowly fading away.

"Come on," Eames says, resting his hand a moment at the small of Arthur's back to urge him forward. It's an inconsequential touch, but as they fall into step, Arthur is suddenly aware of how handsome Eames is, even in this diminished state, and how close he is. 

*

"So," Arthur says as they slowly head back up the path and Eames can tell he's struggling to be casual. "If you don't mind me asking, uh... what actually happened to you?"

Eames flicks a glance at Arthur, grinning. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he says. 

"Try me," Arthur suggests, and when he smiles he's suddenly got the most beautiful dimples Eames thinks he's ever seen. He's too busy gawking at Arthur to either respond or pay attention to simple things like walking with this bloody cane (something he is  _never_  going to get used to, and will his body heal quicker so he can get rid of the bloody thing for good?) and the rubber end catches on one of the raised edges of a paving stone. Eames swears, staggers and then Arthur's steadying him with a strong grip under his elbow. 

"Oh Jesus," Eames says, his cheeks flaming even as he winces at the shot of pain through his hip. He bites his lip against the sharp stab of pain his stupid stumble has irritated with every step. "Sorry about that." 

The look Arthur shoots Eames is so startled it would be comical if Eames was still in a mood to laugh. "But it's not your fault." He still cups Eames' elbow solicitously and Eames alternates between leaning on him and on his cane. He feels kind of geriatric with all this assistance, but it really does help. 

Yusuf's in the kitchen when they enter the house, washing a large collection of glassware. "The laminar flow cabinet is making that noise again," he says. "You need to replace it. You need to replace all the equipment in the lab, but you would rather traipse off to South America and get yourself injured instead."

Eames grunts in irritation. "I wouldn't  _rather_  get injured at all—"

"Really? Then replace the lab. Or don't. But if you don't," Yusuf sniffs, picking up a towel, "don't come sulking to me when you end up with a bug and all your flasks are contaminated."

The thing is, Eames knows Yusuf's right. It's just that he's gone from never being home to not being able to get out and about entirely how he would like to be (and it's not that he can't leave – Eames knows he has something of the spoiled British aristocracy about him; he didn't  _want_  to go out like this so he stays in and toys with his library and orchids and Yusuf's patience). He thinks a moment, tapping his lips, then it comes to him. "I'll give you a blank cheque," he says grandly. "Several, if you need them.  _You_  know what the lab needs replacing."

Yusuf turns and gives him a long look. "Hey, hey, hey," Eames says in a conciliatory tone. "You are the butler around here – and I'm sure you need new equipment yourself, right?" That immediately gets Yusuf's attention and when he perks up Eames grins. 

Eames points to the door. "If you'll excuse us," he mouths exaggeratedly to Yusuf and winking at Arthur. He's rewarded with a laugh from Yusuf and another dimpled smile from Arthur, which hands down sets his heart a-flutter.

When he reaches for Arthur he means to touch him on the arm, honestly, but his hand instead lands on Arthur's wrist, curving over the knob of bone, and from there it just seems logical to slide his fingers down until they link through Arthur's (warm and dry). Arthur looks a little startled but when Eames beams at him like this is totally casual, he's rewarded with another brief flash of dimples. Eames decides the only thing to do is not to let go.

He leads Arthur out into the hallways and past the foot of the stairs to the first door on the left, the library.

Eames gestures for Arthur to enter the room first. He's really not expecting it when Arthur stops in his tracks just inside the door, his mouth gaping open as he peers around. "This is amazing," Arthur breathes, tentatively stepping forward. 

Puzzled by Arthur's wonder, Eames looks around. It's just his library, he thinks, but then he tries to look at it from the point of view of a stranger. 

The floor to ceiling shelves and shelves of leather-bound books and journals, the carefully controlled environment (much like his orchids) and glass cases, the piles of other books for sorting or rubbishing or that might be relevant to his newest adventure... and his bed in the corner, buried under the thick pile of bedding. Then: oh god, he's left all his drugs out on show, the boxes and plastic bottles lined up like little toy soldiers. That's going to make an excellent impression, isn't it?

But Arthur doesn't even seem to notice as he drifts around the room, fingers lightly brushing across book spines, murmuring with delight over the titles. He then spins around and scowls at Eames. "No wonder you never buy anything from me," he says accusingly. "You have everything already."

"Ah," Eames says, waving the package Arthur had delivered. "Not quite."

"I don't even know why you wanted that particular book. There are plenty of better volumes on the Incan colonies, rarer ones that would suit your collection better-"

"That might be the case," Eames says, "but none of them are  _this exact book_." He limps over to his bed, perching on the edge of the mattress, balancing the package on his knees as he reaches for a pocketknife amidst the pill bottles on the low table by the bed.

Arthur blinks suddenly, as if he'd just noticed the bed and the personal paraphernalia. "You sleep in here?" Eames is just glad it's not a couple of months back with the added blood-stained bandages and syringes.

"Difficult to manage the stairs every day on a bung leg," Eames says wryly. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth as he carefully slits open the paper and plastic wrapping the book.

The cover is badly water damaged, just as Arthur had warned him it was, but that's of no import to Eames unless...

Pulling on a pair of cotton gloves, he flips the cover open. The inner pages are still water-marked, but definitely not as badly as the exterior of the book. He holds his breath as he slides the tip of the knife under the splotchy paper inside the cover and gently eases the paper away from the inside of the cover.

"What are you doing?" Arthur cries. He goes to snatch the book from Eames, but Eames slaps his hands away.

"Nothing irreparable if you keep your nose out of it," Eames says and glares up at Arthur. He looks so outraged that Eames' expression softens. "Just watch," he says. "I promise you'll understand soon – if this is the book I think it is." And if it isn't, if the clues he'd put together were wrong, he may be dissecting a very, very expensive purchase. Again he slides the knife into the book. The paper separates away from the inside of the cover like it's been waiting for him, giving it's hidden secrets up like a terrible sexual euphemism from a trashy romance novel.

Eames lets out a noisy breath as he stares down at the carefully folded scrap of paper. Relief scythes through him as he reaches for the lamp and flicks it on.

"What is it?" Arthur says, sounding breathless and shocked, despite himself.

Eames doesn't look up. "The missing piece of the puzzle, I hope," he says, reaching for the piece of paper. It crackles as he gently unfolds it. It has also sustained some damage, ink puddled and dried from water exposure, but Eames can tell immediately that it's a different kind of damage: this occurred within minutes of the letter being written, like it was written in a damp environment. A jungle environment, maybe.

He feels the mattress shift as Arthur sits down next to him, so close their arms press together and their thighs brush. Eames is momentarily distracted by Arthur's proximity, by the hint of his cologne. "What does it say?" Arthur whispers eagerly.

Eames tilts the note to the light. The handwriting is familiar, for all that it was written two centuries ago in a cloud forest in the heights of Ecuador, not far, if Eames is correct, from the waterfall where he'd nearly killed himself through sheer bloody stupidity. Not far at all... No, that's not even right, he realises as his eyes scan across the page. When it really sinks in what these words mean, he begins to laugh, helplessly.

"What? What is it?"

He buries his face in his hand. So close. He'd been  _so close_. It all made stupid, ridiculous sense now. The decaying buckle he'd found at the base of the cliff face hadn't been the pointer he'd thought it was. He'd thought it meant he was heading in the right direction, not--

"Eames! What is it?"

Eames glances over at Arthur. He can't help the wryness in his smile as he says, "Five months ago I was in Ecuador following a lead on a British missionary who'd disappeared into the jungle with a priceless necklace in 1827. I'd managed to piece together enough of his story to find out where he'd last been seen. He had a companion with him, see? The companion – Haversham – stumbled back out of the jungle riddled with malaria, delirious and raving. He had some story about an argument with Smith, the missionary, and they parted ways. Except this," and Eames gestures to the letter, "is a true account of what happened at that waterfall."

Eames is surprised by how interested in the story Arthur looks. "Turns out," Eames continues, "like me, he never made it to the top of the waterfall. Smith fell, landed on the rocks below and died. Haversham buried him in the pool in a canvas shroud weighed down with stones. The necklace will be at the bottom of that pool. Not at the top of the cliff." 

"How do you know Haversham didn't just take the necklace?" Arthur asks intently. Everyone loves a good story of treasure and adventure.

Eames smiles. "Because I've already read Haversham's diaries. He thought Smith was on the lam because of an unfortunate run in with a local policeman's wife. That's how he justified Smith's erratic behaviours, his anxiety. They left town too soon for Haversham to hear any of the rumours of a stolen holy relic."

"Holy relic?" Arthur eyes go wide. It's kind of adorable. "So you're going to find it and return it to the rightful owners then?"

Eames coughs, his gaze sliding away from Arthur's. "Uh. Something like that."

"So you're a restorer of lost antiquities!"

"I prefer 'gentleman adventurer' or 'treasure hunter', personally." That he then goes on to sell them to the highest bidder is beside the point. He's almost certain Arthur wouldn't find that nearly so romantic. If anything, Eames finds Arthur's naiveté delightful; the almost-innocence in his expression, the way he leans in towards Eames, towards the book and the letter, like a flower turned to the sun. 

He's so open to Eames that his breath stutters in his throat and he turns to Arthur, sliding his fingers up under Arthur's chin. Every time he goes into that damn shop he thinks about kissing Arthur, about touching him, about taking him apart underneath him. He thinks about prosaic things like asking Arthur out for a cup of tea (or coffee, Eames is easy), wonders if Arthur fancies other men, if Arthur could fancy  _him_. 

It feels like it's been forever since Eames last touched someone he wanted; he's hot blooded, he enjoys sex, and lots of it whenever he can. The recovery time for his injuries hasn't made it easy for him to go out and get laid, however, and Eames has spent a lot of time with his hand lately. And Arthur,  _oh Arthur_. Eames has imagined many times just what he'd do to Arthur if he had the chance.

He rests his fingertips lightly against Arthur's jaw, not holding, just touching, and while Arthur's not necessarily encouraging with his body language and while he does look a little uncertain, when Eames leans in he doesn't lean away.

Eames kisses Arthur softly. It's not a big kiss, just his mouth on Arthur's; it's not a long kiss, just a handful of heartbeats or a single breath in and out. When Eames pulls back Arthur looks even more uncertain and Eames, suddenly, feels stupid and wrong.

He pulls back, pressing his hand over his eyes. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm – I shouldn't have done that."

"It's-" Arthur says and hesitates, but he doesn't finish it, doesn't say 'It's okay.'

"It's just... it's been a while," Eames says, and he can feel the slow flush of mortification crawling up his neck. It's like he can't stop talking. Christ, this is embarrassing. "Since – well, since before I got injured, and really, you are a dreadfully attractive man and sometimes I just can't help myself—"

"It's okay," Arthur says finally. "Eames, really, it's okay."

Oh, but it's not, because his tone is as uncertain as he his expression was, and Eames sighs and rubs at his eyes. 

He feels Arthur's hand settle lightly on his shoulder and looks up. "It really is okay," he says earnestly. "I know it didn't mean anything." 

"It didn't mean anything," Eames echoes. He clears his throat and repeats the words. Of course it didn't mean anything, he thinks. It never does with men like Arthur. Jesus, Eames wants him so much, this is not fair. He sets the letter aside and carefully and quickly closes the book, swaddling it back in its wrappings. He pushes it into Arthur's unresisting hands. "Good," he says. "I'll... I'll just get your payment so you can go."

"Wait!" Arthur finally says as Eames struggles to his feet, reaching for his cane. "Wait, Eames, I don't – I don't understand. Why are you giving the book back?"

Eames glances back at him, surprised. "The letter," he says. "I have what I wanted. And the damage is easy for someone of your skills to repair, so... you might as well have it back."

"Oh," Arthur says and looks down at the book in his hands. "But your money—"

Eames smiles at him like nothing else matters. "Keep it. Consider it compensation."

*

The bell over the door chimes softly and Arthur looks up. 

It takes him a moment to place the man's face, but when he does, he does a double take. "Yusuf?" he says, puzzled. "Can I help you?" Arthur hasn't seen Yusuf since that one time at Eames' house over a year before. He hasn't seen Eames since then either; after a few weeks Arthur stopped expecting Eames to come by (Eames, who had kissed him and let Arthur brush it off), when six month came and went (like last time Eames didn't return) Arthur realises he was never coming back.

Eames had never bought anything from the store – nothing he wanted to keep, anyway – but it still made Arthur sad and he really didn't know why. 

Yusuf is wearing a dark grey suit that matches the sombreness in his eyes. He's holding a manila envelope which he slides across the counter to Arthur. "This is for you," he says. No explanation, just the envelope. 

Arthur gingerly picks it up. His name is written on the front in ballpoint capitals. He carefully slits open the end with his letter-opener. Glancing at Yusuf, Arthur says, "You don't want to explain what this is?"

"It explains better than I can," Yusuf says simply. "Read it. And then if you have any questions..."

Arthur slides out several folded sheets, the paper thick and crisp between his fingers. He unfolds them, blinking as he recognises an excerpt from a will. His eyes widen as he scans the contents. "Wh-what...? What is this? I mean – I mean, I can see what it is," it's a  _will_ , but... "But what  _is_  this?"

Yusuf sighs softly. "It's Eames' last will and testament. The part that applies to you."

"To me? I don't underst... Wait. He's – Eames is  _dead_?" Arthur says, stunned. 

Ariadne twists around to look at them both from where she sits on a crate doing a manual catalogue of an estate purchase, her mouth hanging open. "What?" she says. "Mr. Eames is dead?"

"To all intents and purposes, yes." Yusuf glances at her and spreads his hands. "It is a provision in his will that if he does not make contact with either myself or one of several other designated people for the duration of one year then proceedings should be initiated to have him legally declared dead and his estate divided as per his will." He nods at the paper in Arthur's hands. "It was his wish that Mr. Gordon have the full contents of his library."

Arthur knows he's gaping like a fish, but he can't help himself. "But we barely even talked. Why would – I mean, I know he came in here regularly, but it... it doesn't make sense." 

Yusuf shrugs. "Eames is Eames," he says then grimaces and amends it to 'was'. "Making sense, uh, was not a big thing in his life."

Arthur drops the papers to the countertop, elbows on the counter and his face in his hands. He stares down at the words on the paper that state unequivocally that the library of one Mr. Thomas Eames is now the sole property of Arthur Gordon, proprietor of First Edition (and all he can think of is Eames kissing him).

*

"Oh, this is stupid," Eames hears someone grunt. "He had better still be alive or I swear I will  _kill him_." The voice is familiar but swimming in some haze between pain and the drugs, he can't focus enough to place it. It hurts even to open his eyes and when he does everything is a blur. 

"Eames!" 

Eames. That's him, right? Yeah, he's pretty sure that's him. 

He tries to respond, to say, "Yeah, that's me," and "I'm in here," but all that comes out is a broken garble of noises. His lips crack and he can taste blood on his swollen, dry tongue. He tries to move, but he's forgotten his hands are bound behind his back, fingers broken and wrists festering.

"Shh, did you hear—?"

"In here, he's in – oh man. Nathan, he's in a real bad way," says a voice he doesn't recognise.

"Watch the door, Sully." A man moves into his line of sight, and Eames squints, trying to focus on his face as he crouches down. His hands are gentle as he tilts Eames' face up and gently spills water into his mouth. Eames swallows desperately, painfully, trying not to choke.

Then Eames recognises him. "Nate," he manages. "Hey."

"'Hey' yourself," Nate says. He's heavily bruised up one side of his face and there's blood all over his shirt. "Better late than never, eh? Christ, buddy, you look like shit." 

"You don' look... best either," Eames slurs, and were it not for the chemical cocktail pumped into his bloodstream he'd be appalled by how wrecked his voice sounds. 

Nate grins down at him, and leans over, making quick work of the wire cutting into his wrists. "Remind me never to piss anyone off the way you do. I'm getting sick of saving your sorry ass."

*

["Here," Yusuf says, pressing a set of keys into Arthur's hand. "It is not going to be a quick thing to pack up this library, and I will not always be available to let you in."

ETC, PROBABLY MORE STUFF HERE.]

*

Arthur glances at Yusuf. He barely knows the man but it doesn't take much to realise he is grieving deeply. "I'm sorry for your loss," Arthur says softly.

Yusuf shoots him a look of gratitude that mostly ends up pained. "He was my best friend," he says. "He was a brat and a charmer and he would disappear for months at a time on his trips and never let anyone know if he was okay, but he was my best friend and I don't know what I am going to do without him around." His voice quavers as he speaks and at a glance Arthur can see the sheen of tears in his eyes, but he doesn't weep. Instead he passes his hand over his eyes and excuses himself.

Arthur sits down on the edge of Eames' makeshift bed. He has no idea why he's become part of this; a man who bought a total of one book from him (and then gave it straight back), a man who he'd only spoken with the once (and then Eames had kissed him), a man who had known how much Arthur would appreciate this gorgeous collection. This man gave Arthur his entire precious library and not a single bit of it makes sense. Why wouldn't he have bequeathed it to the British Library to secure and preserve? 

There's a journal on the little table by the bed (the boxes and containers that had been stacked up there last time Arthur had been in the library were gone) and Arthur reaches out to pick it up, flipping through the pages. 

He feels weird and awkward and awful when he realises it is Eames' journal, full of notations and diagrams and entries of his adventures. Beneath the table there is a stack of them, all similarly bound in heavy duty, scuffed leather – and he imagines Eames hauling them around with him across the world, through deserts and jungles, pages stained with the countries he's been to, dirt and sweat and even blood. 

Arthur leafs through the pages – Eames was quite the talented artist, he realises, running his finger over a sketch of a damaged statue next to a completed one with a question mark next to it, beneath was one word, 'Bamiyan'. On the next page, completely unrelated, was a short anecdote on the Ark of the Covenant dated 4 March 2007 that Eames must have copied down as it was related to him by an Egyptian villager, followed by an underlined addendum  _G. Lucas has brainwashed thoroughly – def. no AoC but found several amulets that will please POI._

Most of Eames' notes are annotated; humorous, or sweet, or serious asides that helped Arthur piece together what kind of a man he must have been. It's easy to fit these little fragments of a person up against the man Arthur had met, to see how they fit in his personality. In this journal Eames doesn't appear to be searching for anything in particular; there are months, sometimes, between entries of interesting tidbits he's heard of treasures and objects of interest. Other times it's like he's used the book as an actual journal, noting down day to day activities and thoughts; it's amidst all this that he finds himself mentioned. 

 _Think I might have accedentally killed everything in the heated house this afternoon. Electrical fault in one of the fans started a fire and it wouldn't have been a big deal but the polystyrene boxes started melting. Thank god Yusuf was around otherw_

There's a break, then he starts afresh over the page.

 _Turns out the whole wall of paphs is buggered – turning black and dropping leaves. Asked Saito if he knew what I could do to save them, said I'd be best off rubbishing them all and starting over. I know there just plants but I feel like shit. Yusuf is telling me not to beat myself up but some of those plants were irreplaceable. Went to the book shop to get out of the place for a bit and stop dwelling._

 _The owner – ARTHUR – spoke to me for the first time. I was going to ask him out but he was kind've rude so I don't think he likes me and in what Yusuf would call a 'grand display of restraint' decided not to make a move irregardless. Still like his shop so he doesn't get rid of me that easily!_

"That's not true," Arthur mutters to himself, to the book. "I wasn't  _rude_." Though when he thinks about it, he sort of had been. And Eames had been going to ask him out, too. Ugh, you are impossible, Arthur, he tells himself. The one time someone is actually interested in him enough to want to ask him out, he self-sabotages  _without even realising it._

The contents then devolve into what Arthur recognises as serious planning for the Ecuador trip that saw Eames injured. The journal isn't complete, however when Arthur picks up the next one he sees that Eames has transferred his information across to it. 

*

[SOME MORE RUBBISH GOES HERE. ALSO: 

Unable to help himself (and glad Yusuf gave him a key) Arthur reads late into the night, every single one of Eames' journals that he can get his hands on. He mightn't have known the man much at all in real life, but he's learning the little intricacies that made him up and  _likes_  him, he genuinely likes him. Eames' playful sense of humour makes him laugh, he has a keen eye for observation – particularly of people – and a habit of noting down his thoughts as they occur to him in a way that Arthur thinks shows more of the man Eames had been than any of the stories Yusuf told. 

ALSO:

Like some colossal, pining idiot, Arthur's gone and fallen in love with a dead man.]

*

He wakes slowly, disoriented. The lamp is still on and he blinks owlishly. There's someone else in the library, a dark shape on the other side of the light moving towards him. "Yusuf?" Arthur says uncertainly. 

But it's not.

Arthur is clearly dreaming, because it’s Eames who moves into the circle of light cast by the lamp, who sits down on the edge of the makeshift bed Arthur has commandeered, who just smiles as he braces himself on his hands over Arthur, leaning down and kissing him. Arthur closes his eyes and tips his face up into Eames' kiss, feeling Eames shift above him and then his hand cups light and warm against Arthur's cheek. 

Reaching up, Arthur curls his fingers in the front of Eames' shirt, tugging him closer and flicking his tongue along Eames' bottom lip. Eames chuckles against his mouth and opens up to him, his own tongue sliding against Arthur's slowly and sensually. They kiss, deep and wet and messy, for a long moment before Eames pulls back. 

Arthur can't help the way his fingers tighten convulsively in the front of Eames' shirt. So what if it's a dream? He doesn't want to let go of what he never had a chance to have in real life. What he never knew he wanted in real life before Eames... before he died. What, really, he completely squandered his chance to have by being rude and then hesitant.

"This," Eames says, his voice amused, "is not what I expected to find in my bed when I came home. A handsome bookshop owner reading all my precious secrets." He trails a finger along the spine of the journal that had fallen from Arthur's hands, slack in sleep.

"I just wanted to know who you were. I never had a chance to find out before you d—"

"Shh," Eames says, pressing warm fingers against Arthur's mouth. He kisses him again, shifting til he lay over Arthur, the weight of his body so delicious and  _real_. Arthur slides his fingers into Eames' hair (silky against his fingers) and the other hand up under Eames' shirt to skate across his skin (warm and smooth). Eames groans softly into Arthur's mouth and pushes down with his hips. 

He's hard against Arthur who makes an involuntary noise in the back of his throat, wriggling a little to free his legs and tightening his thighs against Eames' hips, holding and pushing up so Eames can feel him too. Again Eames laughs, this time against the corner of Arthur's jaw, nuzzling against his skin. He rocks his hips and Arthur hisses softly, pushing up against him, and when Eames murmurs Arthur's name against his throat in a low, broken rasp Arthur thinks it's one of the most beautiful things he's heard.

They rock together on the bed, Eames tangling his fingers through Arthur's dishevelled hair, Arthur touching all the skin he can (he wants to remember this, because even if it's only a dream Eames feels wonderful). He gasps softly in the semi-darkness as he arches under Eames and it's slow and dreamlike as they move against each other, beautiful in a way Arthur knows real sex isn't. Eames comes first, stiffening over him as his hips jerk, lips wet and breath hot as he presses his nose in against the soft skin behind Arthur's ear.

Arthur seeks out Eames' mouth as Eames rolls to the side and Arthur shifts to accommodate him. He can feel the brush of Eames' fingers against the skin of his belly where his shirt has ridden up, unbuttoning his trousers and pulling down the fly, brushing aside material as he slips his hand inside. His fingers wrap around Arthur and Arthur whines, bucking forward into Eames' hand. He's not ashamed by his eagerness, not embarrassed by the ragged curses, the adoring way he murmurs Eames' name over and over. 

...

"Hush," Eames says. "Go back to sleep, Arthur." He presses against Arthur's side on the narrow bed, heavy and warm and Arthur is so comfortable that after his orgasm its nothing to close his eyes, press his nose in against Eames' neck and fall back asleep.

When Arthur wakes he's cold and alone and sticky, the journal he'd been reading clutched to his chest. He feels tight through his chest, a hiccup in his breath like that which precedes tears. A dream. Of course it was a dream.

He buries his face in his hands and fancies he can smell Eames on his skin.

*

He's ravenous as he pads into the kitchen, raiding the fridge and then the pantry. A cheese sandwich is about the best he can manage before he's wolfing it down, guiltily drinking milk straight from the carton as he stands over the sink to catch his crumbs. 

Eames is beyond ridiculously glad to be home, even if Yusuf's done an appalling job of keeping the fridge stocked. He floats around the kitchen, trailing his fingers over the edge of the bench, the tabletop. His laptop is still sitting where he left it out of the way on the table, against the wall. He ignores it a moment in favour of leaning over the bench and peering out the window down at the cluster of orchid houses. 

There's not much to see from here, but Eames imagines them to be a riotous mess of desperately overgrown and dead plants. He sighs, because it's going to be a bugger going through everything, but he knows it's his fault because who else is there to blame when he's away so long? At least the garden is still looking kept, so Mr. Armidale must still be coming by to tend to it.

Then Eames slides into his seat at the end of the table, dragging his laptop over in front of him. There's a post-it note on the lid:  _GET EAMES'S PASSWORD_  it says in Yusuf's handwriting. "Yusuf!" Eames mutters in a shocked tone. "You bloody sneak! Now let's get this thing booted up and see if  _I_  can still remember my password."

Five minutes later he's sitting back in his chair and all the blood has drained out of his face.

"I'm dead," he says, stunned. "I'm  _actually dead_."

Fuck, no wonder Arthur had looked like he'd seen a ghost. 

Arthur. Why was he even—?

 _Oh Christ._

Suddenly Eames remembered all the provisions he'd put into his last will and testament in the event of something permanent happening to him on one of his jaunts in a country where maybe they wouldn't care about identifying his corpse and sending it home for his mother to bury. Yusuf gets the house and grounds, Saito gets his orchids, his artefacts go to the Cobb's and their precious collection of antiquities, and his library... well, it was left to someone Eames didn't even know. All he knew was that he wanted it in the hands of someone who had looked at his collection with such stunned joy as Arthur did.

Eames counts back on his fingers – it's definitely been a year, he doesn't doubt it, but on top of that it's been another four months. A year, and then four months for everyone to think he was dead. God, he should just leave now, sneak out before anyone knows he's still alive (he doesn't doubt Arthur thinks he was a dream; now he knows what everyone is thinking about him Arthur's behaviour makes some sense).

Before Yusuf realises that Eames is still alive, that he didn't even try to contact him once in the fourteen months since he headed back to Ecuador. Intervening events between then and now aside – Eames didn't spend all of the fourteen months on the run injured and captured and drugged out of his mind and tortured – there were, in hindsight, plenty of times when he could have contacted Yusuf or the Cobb's or any of his contacts to say, "Hey, still alive here," and maybe even, "Also if you're in the area, I could use a hand," instead of only thinking about his contacts in the region, of how to get hold of  _them_  to save him.

He isn't even the gaunt, crippled mess he was when he'd returned from Ecuador the first time – and somehow he thinks he'd have less difficulty making Yusuf not hate him if he was that man again. (He'd  _been_  that man again, six months before, when he'd finally been busted out of the Panamanian villa where he'd been held prisoner, his wounds suppurating in the wet heat. He still doesn't remember much of that time, between his capture and his fever breaking, weeks after Nate rescued his sorry arse.)

He thinks of running, he really does.

But Eames is enough of a realist to know that word would get back eventually. Eames knows too many people in too many countries to keep his survival a secret – eventually someone would run off at the mouth and then he'd be in an even worse position. 

Plus he doesn't  _want_  to run. He's only just gotten home, finally, and he doesn't want to leave his best friend behind (any more than he already did, he acknowledges wryly), or his new friend from the book shop curled up all warm and pliant in his bed (and he can't wait for the story behind that; he'd kissed Arthur impulsively as he blinked sleeping up at Eames, stunned and sad and longingly, and Arthur hadn't wanted to let him go).

The sun is just starting to peek warm and golden through the trees as Eames lets himself out the back door, padding down the path to his orchid houses. He might as well see what damage fourteen months and a read will has done to the place. He punches in the master access code and lets himself into the heated house; immediately he can see the different – half the plants are gone to Saito's already, but those that remain look well tended. That's something, at least.

The seedlings from the pod he'd put on  _exquisita_  the first day Arthur had come by have really shot away, and he's delighted to see the smattering of spikes across the tray of plants. He putters around with his orchids for a while – not his orchids, he has to remind himself, not anymore – before deciding to man up and head back up to the house. Eames is usually up with the sun, but Yusuf has always been a late sleeper.

At least, in Eames' experience. 

He steps out of the hothouse and is halfway up the path when his step stutters and he stops. Yusuf is standing in the doorway leading into the kitchen, staring, open-mouthed and pale. Eames slowly approaches him, hating the look of shock, pain, distress in Yusuf's face. 

"You are not – how are you—" Yusuf stops and the hand he presses to his mouth shakes. 

"I'm sorry, Yusuf. This is my fault," Eames says. 

"I thought you were dead. We all thought you were dead."


End file.
